The Chronicles of Van Deloney-Chapter 25: THE YOUNG PRINCES OF RUTHANIA LINEAGE

THEREIN, in the quiet solitude of the mansion study, moved Zephyrl with practiced grace in preparing the tea almost ceremoniously. At the desk sat Desmond, half-drunk tea beside him, but his mind was buried farther away outside this world, back among his scattered correspondence and foreign affairs. The burden of the past month hung thick in the air. No letters had arrived from his father. No word from the Kingdom. Still Desmond lingered here where silence reigned in a mansion so far away from duty.

Zephyrl busily set the steaming cup of tea beside him, moving with an interlude of measured, deliberate steps. For a moment, he stood by watching his master in silence.

"Master Desmond," began Zephyrl in the near-whispering tones, respect infused with some concern. "It has been an entire month since your last letter to His Majesty. Are you to bear the understanding that they have received it already?" He kept his voice down in an ominous murmur laden with uncertainty as he pondered this destined delay.

He briefly looked at Desmond and caught an even more momentary glance; a fleeting, predatory smile turned to an almost inaudible one upon his lips. "Perhaps," he coolly muttered, ever-so-comfortable and composed in tone. "I surmise Percival can handle the situation efficiently."

Zephyrl paused, his stare directed at Desmond. The mention of Percival intended to reassure; but of course, Zephyrl could see through that. Desmond's conviction stood on very shaky ground. He was trying to convince himself as much as trying to convince Zephyrl.

"Are you not concerned?" Zephyrl paced his words with care.

Desmond's eyes fell back to the papers before him, fingers absently caressing the edge of a letter. He maintained his somewhat neutral expression, but had not yet fully relaxed his posture. A tension flickered in it. "You ask me," he answered casually, "I have enough to worry about. These matters have priority."

The retainer nodded but was barely able to suppress the faintest of frowns. He sensed Desmond's disillusionment, the tension in his tone. The stories were much more worrying than an outright inconvenience from the capital; they reminded him, every second, of the danger that Desmond was presently in.

A kingdom that didn't have a successor, a crown prince lost to the world, and the dangerous game of royal politics without answers.

"I know, but are you sure that's all?" Zephyrl pressed, gently but with strain, as he set a cup of tea before Desmond and kept his sight on his master's face. "The silence of His Majesty could..." He trailed off, feeling the weight of the words.

With deliberate slowness, Desmond placed the papers down and inhaled before speaking. "Perhaps I am tired of waiting for answers that may never come," he said, voice laced with an edge of frustration; it was quickly masked behind his usual cool demeanor. "But I am no fool, Zephyrl. I know the games they play." This was all part of the dance of politics, wasn't it?

Zephyrl fastened his gaze on Desmond for a moment; in his own way, he was calm. "And yet, Master Desmond," he said softly, "you are still bound by the very game you wish to escape."

Desmond's jaw went tight, but he would not say more, taking a slow sip from the tea before him. The conversation had ended, at least for now, but the unease remained, heavy in the air between them.

"Besides, you still haven't dealt with the letters from the Eastern Border, Your Highness," Zephyrl said, dumping another cup of freshly poured tea beside him. "They are demanding a discussion on the tariffs for next quarter."

Desmond curled his lips into something resembling a sneer and a fatigued smile. "Let them wait," he muttered while running his hand through his hair. "I have absolutely no desire to converse with diplomats."

Zephyr didn't twitch, but his gaze remained. "The kingdom expects you to act in the absence of the Crown Prince, Highness."

For a fleeting moment Desmond's eyes flicked up, flashing with frustration before being forced into submission. "I get it. Should I remind myself every moment what I'm doing?" His voice sharpened, but then softened just as quickly. "Maybe I am the one who is absent. Not him."

Zephyrl, always composed, allowed a moment of understanding to pass between them. "The royal duties are yours now. Nobody questions."

It took Desmond a long time to sip the tea, letting the warm liquid burn down the throat, as if that were to wash out all his doubts. As the aftertaste bitterly matched the ache he felt in his chest. "I never asked for them. I never asked for any of this."

"You are not those who choose this burden, but at the same time, you bear it," Zephyrl said calmly, his tone still reverent but quietly authoritative.

Desmond snapped the cup to the table. "And yet, I bear it unaided." Zephyrl remained silent for a beat before placing on the table a new pile of papers. "As of now, external trade agreements with the Empire are unsettled. A decision is expected. There are whispers in the Cabinet concerning your leadership."

Desmond's hand clenched into a fist, and for a moment, the expression changed to something grimmer. His eyes narrowed as he skimmed the new papers; the weight of responsibilities bore against his chest like a vice. "Let them whisper," said Desmond with a cold voice, "the actual decisions are made behind closed doors."

There was a long silence between them. Zephyrl, ever faithful, made no remark. Desmond's gaze diverted to the papers before him, yet calmed by his thoughts too far away from politics and ruling. Somewhere he could still feel the absence of his brother, the silent secret between them, pervading the air.

"You may leave," Desmond said suddenly tired, "I will manage this." Zephyrl bowed and moved to the door, stopping to glance back with some feeling of dismay. "I shall prepare a more detailed report for the Western Trade by afternoon, Highness. Should you require anything..."

Desmond spoke, almost whispering unfit for a prince. "If I need anything, I shall call for you." Behind Zephyrl, the door swung closed and the room was quiet again: all alone in his mind, Desmond. His eyes were riveted to nothing beneath the open horizon where the sun climbed higher, yet his thoughts were chained to a moment long past.

There was a young man hunched in a regal castle of the Ruthania family in the Kingdom of Luxtonia, seated on a tall chair that appreciated him, ever so formal and stiff, as though pleasing royalty. He is Denson Lou Alister Ruthania, the third son of the Ruthania family, who, due to childhood misfortune, now was imprisoned in a wheelchair. Once a strong frame, doomed by fate but still safe by his astute intellect. His pale golden eyes flickered on the contents of the room, and he only pulled up for air when Percival, family's most loyal retainer, approached him with a letter in hand.

"Percival, is that a letter?" Denson asked, calmer but somewhat figured suspiciously in his tone.

"Yes, your Highness," Percival said, lowering his head just as he presents the letter. "This is sent from His Highness, Prince Desmond." Carefully he placed it in Denson's care, his eyes full of respect but with that quiet hint of concern for all the subtle tension that always hung regarding talks about Desmond.

Denson's face darkened further at taking the letter while his eyes traced the envelope's seal. "Another letter from Desmond... To father, I assume?" Looking at Percival, however, he spat out. "Give it over to him. After all, those two are the enemies towards one another-not the rest of us."

As Percival turned to leave, another figure entered the room. This was Don Aurelius Timothy Ruthania, the youngest of the Ruthania siblings. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a sword at his side Don was an athletic type who would drown out the more reserved nature of his older brothers. His bright eyes scanned the room and raised an eyebrow at seeing Denson squarely in his usual position, seemingly lost in thought.

"Percy, have you seen Travious around?" Don asked, his voice full of intent, although the keen glimmer that revealed an upcoming sparring session could be seen sparkling in his eyes. His lithe frame, although youthful, often portrayed a state of relentless restlessness.

"Travious? Why don't you find him on your own, Don?" Denson replied testily, his irritation barely held under control.

Don blinked, clearly unfazed by the rebuke. "I would, Denson, if I hadn't been fencing with Captain Durkheim for hours on end. Now, I'm trying to catch him before he runs off to the city again. I've other things on my plate, you know." The tone was fairly light-hearted, but it hid the underlying frustration of Don's being most often caught up in what he deemed mundane chores of his siblings.

Denson raised his brow at the way his younger brother appeared jovial, even as irritation flared within him. He knew the carefree attitude of Don very often belied deeper ill feelings. Don had never been able to appreciate the burden of the family's responsibilities in the way in which Denson had done; and while the energy Don injected into the family was indeed an asset, it often seemed as if he was perpetually naive to the intricacies of politics and court life.

"Seems Travious has gone to town," Percival broke in, reading the change in Don's face. He folded his hands as if to gain control again over the room. "I think there is no need for your search, my lord."

"I see," Don said, his disappointment barely evident, but that didn't stop him from being focused on something else. He turned to Percival. "Might you communicate to Madam Ladachart the change in schedule for my violin lesson?"

Denson's sharp voice sliced through the quiet air as if a blade had cut. "Why would you burden Percival with such tasks? Can't you simply relay the message to the servants yourself?" His voice was sharp, but there was an edge to it born from a bitterness that had been growing in him for months. The unspoken animosity always existed between Denson and Don, jealousy mixed with misunderstanding, and the awkward distance that came from different priorities.

"It is merely a trifling favor," Don replied lightly, unaffected by the caustic emphasis placed on the words by Denson. "Percival can easily cope. He has always been good at these things."

Denson gave Don an icy stare. "You are too reliant on others, Don. Perhaps you should try doing it for a change." His eyes flashed with suppressed frustration, an emotion he had never quite managed to hide when it came to Don's nonchalance.

Calm and composed, Percival slid into a small bow. "There is no issue, Your Highness. I shall take care of it," he said in his characteristic respectful voice.

Don gestured with his head and turned towards the door. "Thank you, Percival. I believe you will do it soon."

Once Don had departed, Percival exited from the side, flawlessly grasping a folded cloth in one hand and a tray with tea in the other. "Your Highness," he began, gently placing the tray on a nearby table. "You have been quite absorbed in your studies these days. How is everything going at the academy?"

Denson turned a page slowly, then lifted his gaze. "The usual," he sighed a little. "Last week I submitted a thesis on ancient fiscal reforms, and the dean has invited me to speak at next month's forum." He paused, his tone flat and distant. "I suppose being referred to as an asset means something, even in a wheelchair."

Percival offered a slight bow, his expression sincere. "You are far more than just an asset, Your Highness. The academy recognizes your brilliance—just as I always have."

Denson let a faint dry smile slip. "Flattery, Percival? That's a rarity for you."

"It's not flattery if it's true," the retainer answered with the briefest of smiles to accompany the pouring of tea into a small porcelain cup, which he then set next to Denson, voicing neither approval nor reproach. The rustling of the leaves outside was their only companion for a brief spell.

After a fleeting silence, Denson spoke again, gently closing the book, directing his gaze towards the window. "I've spent enough time with ink and paper for today," he murmured. "I think I'm going for a short stroll. Alone."

Percival blinked once, as if in surprise, and nodded with respect. "Shall I accompany you from a distance, in case—"

Denson's soft yet firm tone interrupted, "No. This one time, I would like to keep the silence for myself."

"As you say, Your Highness," Percival said with another bow. "If you need me, I'll be about."

Denson steadily turned his wheelchair toward the exit, the only sound being the muted creaking of the wheels as he left the library. The passageways of the palace today seemed heavier, or perhaps it was the burden of memory and expectation pressing down on his already weighted shoulders. There rose within him that familiar ache as he passed the portraits of bygone rulers, the stout columns chiselled with the history of their dynasty.

Lately, Denson's thoughts drifted back to his elder brother, Desmond. He felt a deep, long, gnawing frustration when he glanced at the portrait of the family hanging close by. His fingers skimmed the armrest of the chair, searching for a means to escape that bitter past. The truth was, escape was never an option.

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Desmond may have possessed the skills of a ruler—but Dominique was always the favored one. The golden child. The heir apparent. And now with the sudden shadow cast over the kingdom by the disappearance of Dominique, everything had grown tighter... and more fragile.

Yet Denson couldn't help but think somehow that all these sins are not only for success but also that there are wounds of trust lost, unsanctified wounds, and silences that grew into things far more dangerous.

A long breath escaped Denson as he slowly wheeled himself into the open courtyard. Gentle rustling of leaves, distant chirps of birds; that was what he sought. The coolness of the breeze brushed against his face, and though his thoughts drifted away to his brothers, he felt the ground below his feet because of the crick in the air.

Don–young, reckless, and blissfully unaware of the cracks forming below their feet. Always eager to play the part of the dutiful prince, but never quite understanding the extent of the quiet storm building in their house.

And Desmond–aloof, sharp, and increasingly unpredictable. What had remained of their brotherhood had eroded with the years, leaving Desmond's ambition colder without the light Dominique cast upon it. Denson wasn't so naive as to ignore it anymore. Something just seemed really creepy about Desmond's step nowadays, as if he had already found a role that wasn't his to play.

Beyond the trimmed hedges and stone statues stood the courtyard, and as he gazed into it Denson let the silence stretch under the weight of what had not been said. His grasp tightened slightly about the armrest of his wheelchair.

Whatever happened to Dominique... it changed things. And Denson secretly feared that the cracks would have gone into something more than merely family: political. Dangerous.

And if not contained, they might very well tear the kingdom apart:

"Who would have guessed this simple issue would not only throw the future into disarray for the royal family but also for the rest of the country's citizens."